


Echo of Violence

by honeybun, Sabo (Sabou)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Past Torture, Post-War, veraverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28234848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabo
Summary: Years after his torture at the hands of the Gestapo, Antonio still struggles with psychological and physical pain.
Relationships: South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	Echo of Violence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [George deValier](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=George+deValier).



> This story is embedded in George deValier‘s ‚Veraverse‘. If you have not read either Bésame Mucho or Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart you might be confused with the references in this story.

Antonio had found it difficult, after what had happened with the Gestapo, of course he had. Everyone who knew had given him a wide berth that if anything he was grateful for. But time passed, and while some wounds heal with iodine and bandages, others do not. 

At first it’s things like unfamiliar cars that drive up the gravel pathway into the village, Antonio will be up out of bed whether he’s physically well enough or not, and he’ll have grabbed the gun he had hidden under the pillow. He’ll watch through the window until they pass, some couple lost on a countryside jaunt, one of Roma’s friends.

Later on it is other things, small until suddenly they’re piercing, little knives under his skin. His arm now gone but still somehow feeling the phantom pain of it, or waking in the night covered with sweat, trembling, not from remembering what had happened anymore, no, but that he could have been taken away. That he might never have had the chance to return. 

He’ll pat the other side of the bed where Lovino rests, Antonio’s night terrors or no. His lover is already awake, staring up at him blearily, sidling close and against his side, cool hands touching his clammy skin. One on his back, the other on his chest, ‘Toño,  _ Toño _ , it’s alright, I’m here.’ 

He didn’t know whether he could admit to Lovino that it wasn’t the thought of it all happening again, but that he might not survive it, that he could leave Lovino alone, again. Those three years had seemed like nothing, necessary. He’d still laughed with friends and allies in bars and looked occasionally at a sweet passing girl. But everything had changed. It was Lovino or nothing. And wasn’t that the awful fact of love? As selfish and cloying as it was sacrifice, as it was care. 

His face dips down and he nuzzles pleadingly against Lovino, like a puppy seeking warmth, ‘Lovi, my love,  _ mi corazón _ ,’ he mumbles against his curls. Lovino is still against him, another miracle, that somehow after everything he could hold Lovino less like he was water, slipping away from him. 

The next morning when the world still feels a little too bright and cold, raw against his skin, they stay in bed, under the covers. 

Lovino knows, knows how his love struggles, still, that while those wounds have faded to scars there is still stitching up to be done, carefully, by hand. He might be the only one to do it, but that’s the kind of work he’s happy to do. He knows that there are hidden pieces of shrapnel that lie deep in Antonio, still waiting to be plucked out, and he’ll be there when they present themselves. 

Antonio’s eyes are ringed in dark shadows, so Lovino keeps the curtains closed tightly, wandering in and out of the kitchen to make them a pot of coffee to share. After a night terror, sometimes the sheets are so sticky from sweat that they need to change them in the middle of the night, Antonio apologising under his breath and Lovino kissing him squarely on the mouth, not allowing any of that. 

But this morning the sheets are still relatively fresh, at least enough to sit in for the rest of the day. Lovino’s hand scrabbles on his bedside table as Antonio pours their coffee from a tray on the bed, two mugs beside one another. Antonio always feels raw the morning after something particularly dreadful, but just the sight of the two cups coddled next to the other can ease a certain tension he didn’t know he was holding. 

Lovino props up the pillows behind Antonio’s back, and then goes to lean carefully against Antonio’s chest. Antonio isn’t sure whether he does it purposefully, giving him the illusion of strength, but whatever his intention it works. He combs a hand through the curls against his chest. Lovino opens up a book in his hand, cover worn from frequent reading, pages jutting out in places where the glue of the spine has worn off. 

He starts reading, and the pace of the world slows to a stop, just the two of them spinning around slowly. In the new reality where Antonio is as he was before, just with a few more stories and one less limb, where Lovino has nursed all his aches, soothed all his hurts, and now they can sleep in together on a weekend, Lovino reading to them both, coffee going cold while they forget time itself exists. 

Antonio feels his eyes water, and doesn’t have the strength to fight them off, when Lovino looks up at him he looks wretched, too in love to live. Too blessed, that through everything he can be here with Lovino, safe and happy in whatever capacity, that he could be the one at Lovino’s side.

Lovino looks up at him, shushing him quietly, temple pressing against his cheek and mumbling soothing things, ‘It’s alright, I’ll take care of you, Tono,’ he sounds so sure, like he’s happy to, like Antonio has won the lottery twice, found the love of his life, and that been so fortuitous that he loves him back. 

‘It’s rotten work,’ Antonio mumbles against Lovino who kisses up the salty tracks across his cheeks.

‘No to me, not if it’s you,’ Lovino replies, wet breaths wrenched from Antonio’s chest as their lips press together again, desperate and insistent. 


End file.
